The Hand of Fate
by charleygirl
Summary: Green Baize Door Universe. An attack in an alley behind the Opera House marks the start of an unconventional friendship.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

This fic is considerably shorter than my last, and takes us back to the first meeting between Erik and Madame Giry as told in Chapter 11 of _Beyond the Green Baize Door_. This first part is expanded from that chapter using the bones of the original.

Enjoy! :)

* * *

**THE HAND OF FATE**

**PART ONE**

With hindsight, it had not been perhaps the wisest idea to leave Meg alone in their lodgings to run back to the theatre for the bag she left behind, Antoinette thought. Even though the rent money was important and the landlord would take any excuse to evict them, disliking theatrical people intensely, was it really worth _this_? She might never see her little girl again, and even if she was allowed to survive the horror that was coming nothing would ever be the same. It would be impossible to stay in Paris, to continue with her job, knowing what had happened, what had been done to her. Antoinette Giry was no weak woman, no coward, but even she trembled with fear as a groping hand inched ever further up her thigh, a hot, sweaty body whose rank smell filled her nostrils and made her want to vomit pushing her up against the bricks in the alley that ran alongside the magnificent new facade of the Opera Populaire. In front of the theatre, in the Place de l'Opera, the lamps were being extinguished as the last of the patrons made their way home from the cafes and bars which lined the nearby streets, but here in the dark, in the shadows, danger lurked, and she had blindly walked straight into it.

"Don't struggle, cherie, and this will all be over soon enough," a rough voice slurred in her ear, that hand moving once again, pushing her skirts aside with growing impatience. Behind her captor his two companions, doubtless waiting their own turn, sniggered. "Who knows... if you please me enough there might be something in it for you..."

Antoinette twisted her face away as his wet lips tried to make contact with hers, his unkempt, untrimmed beard scratching her cheek. "Just take the money and go," she told him, summoning up her best stern tone, the one she used on unruly ballerinas who refused to buckle down and practise. "I have nothing more!"

"You think we just want money, darling?" He laughed, licking her neck, and she shuddered, her hands reflexively curling into fists, nails biting into her palms as she felt the rasp of his tongue on her skin and his wine-sodden breath in her ear. "Perhaps we'll take the cash _and_ anything else we fancy." His wandering hand gripped her thigh, fingers digging into her flesh, and he grinned, his stained, uneven teeth horribly bright in the gloom. "What d'you think, lads? I say we have a little fun!"

His friends laughed again. "She's got some fire in her, Joseph," one called as Antoinette struggled futilely once more. "Don't ride her too hard and leave nothing for us!"

A moan escaped Antoinette as she thought of little Meg, alone in their room with only Madame Reinard next door listening out for her. The poor child had already lost her father and she was barely six years old; who would explain to her that her Maman was never coming home? She had been so stupid to leave her daughter, even if she had believed it to be for just a few minutes; her folly was about to cost her dear. She steeled herself for what was to come...

...and was quite suddenly aware that there was another presence in the alley, one which had appeared silently and unnoticed by any of them until that moment. A dark figure, barely more than a shadow shrouded in a thick cloak and a hat whose wide brim was tilted over his face, loomed up from the mist. It seemed to have materialised there by magic; despite her position, her breath loud and her heart hammering in her ears, Antoinette knew she had heard no footsteps approaching. Hope stirred in her breast once more.

"I suggest you leave this woman be and crawl back under whatever filthy stone from whence you came," a voice, low and melodious and as sharp as a rapier, hissed, improbably sounding as though it were near Antoinette's own ears even though its owner stood six feet away. "If you refuse I may decide to take matters into my own hands, and you would not want that, I promise you."

Slowly, the two thugs standing behind the man who had first attacked her turned to face the newcomer. One of them smiled. "What we got 'ere, then? Don't look like no gendarme to me," he declared.

"Whoever he is, he won't be bothering us," the ringleader, Joseph, declared, adding with a leer, "I'm sure you two can convince him he's not wanted; I'm rather busy here." As if to make clear his intent he pushed his body up against Antoinette's. She tried to recoil, but there was nowhere to go, the wall hard against her back. With his free hand he was fumbling with the buttons on his trousers, his breath quick and heavy.

His companions nodded, and with an unspoken agreement they began to advance on the shadow. Before they reached him, however, the moon took the opportunity to emerge from behind one of the lowering clouds, stopping the men in their tracks. One of them stared, mouth open, while the other exclaimed,

"For the love of God, look at 'is face! What the hell _is_ that?"

Despite her predicament Antoinette could not help but look as well, and was startled to see that the stranger had lifted his head, allowing them to see beneath his hat, and with a thrill of horror she realised he seemed to have no face to speak of: one half lay in deep shadow while the other gleamed white in the moonlight as though made entirely of bone. The man chuckled, a sound which made a shiver race down her spine. "I advise you, messieurs, it would be a grave mistake to take me on," he said. "Leave now while you still have the chance and while you still have breath in your lungs."

There was confusion as the two thugs looked at each other and then at the repellent creature who still held Antoinette. He glanced over his shoulder at the stranger, who stood quite still with the mist curling about his cloak; Antoinette found herself reminded of a great cat, waiting to pounce. "Just get rid of him," he ordered impatiently, swearing under his breath as the buttons refused to free themselves. "What are yer, a pair of women?"

"But - " one of them began, only to be interrupted by a sneer.

"It's two against one – he don't stand a chance. Get him out of here and dump him in the river. The body'll never be found."

_Until low tide_, Antoinette thought, but his words seemed to reassure his companions. Once more, they advanced on the stranger and she heard the sound of knives being drawn; the blades flashed silver in the moonlight and she held her breath as the dark man remained perfectly still until they were no more than two feet from him. Outnumbered and apparently unarmed, his position appeared to be hopeless and the roughs knew it, sharing a triumphant grin between them. Confident of their own superiority they advanced, the one in the lead lifting his knife in preparation to strike, but then, faster than Antoinette's eyes could follow, there was a sharp crack in the cold air and a length of thin cord snaked from the shadow's hand, wrapping around the throat of the nearest of his assailants. A blade clattered to the floor; there was a horrible choking sound and an even more dreadful snap, and the stranger pushed away the limp form of one attacker and turned his attention to the other before the body of his first victim had even hit the ground.

The man, terrified by the fate of his companion, tried to run, but the dark figure was too quick for him, the noose flying into the air with a hiss and finding its target with unerring accuracy. In mere seconds, he had been dispatched in the same practised manner. Antoinette stared, in equal parts disgusted and astonished by what she had just witnessed. Her rescuer stepped over the bodies of the two roughs and approached the last, who still stood with his body pressed up against hers, pinning her to the wall in a revoltingly intimate position. There was now no mistaking his intention, his desire obvious, and it seemed he still intended to follow it through despite the deaths of his friends.

"Release the lady, Monsieur." The stranger's voice was as smooth as silk, though it had a dangerous edge. "Immediately, unless you wish to share the fate of your associates."

"I don't think that'll be happening," Joseph said, at last letting go of Antoinette to reach inside his tattered jacket. She took the opportunity to wrench herself away, clutching her throat and trying not to gag, reeling from the smell of alcohol and body odour, her head spinning. Her legs felt as though they were made of jelly but she managed to stumble a few feet back towards the theatre. "And d'you know why? 'Cause I ain't as stupid as them!" He whirled around, his speed taking the stranger by surprise, and struck out with a practised left hook. There was the dull crack of bone hitting bone and a grunt from the man who had been hit; the next moment there was another sound, impossibly like that of china shattering upon the floor.

A terrible pause hung in the air before an almost inhuman roar of fury came from the stranger and he straightened, drawing himself to an impressive full height from which he loomed over Antoinette's attacker, his cloak whirling around his shoulders like the wings of some great bird of prey. He reached out with long, thin fingers and grasped the man by the collar, pulling him close. As the moon appeared once more, Joseph looked full into the stranger's face and froze. "God in Heaven," the man whispered, one hand automatically, instinctively moving to cross himself.

"Oh, no, Monsieur. God deserted me years ago," the stranger said softly. "It seems He has done the same for you."

"What... what _are_ you?"

Antoinette caught the flash of teeth in the dim light and realised the stranger was smiling. "For you, the Angel of Death," he replied, and moved his fingers to the man's throat. Joseph gurgled, eyes wide and bulging. "I do dislike killing with the bare hands; so very messy. Unfortunately the Punjab lasso is rather awkward at such close quarters so for you, my dear sir, I am willing to make an exception."

Joseph's arms flailed as his air supply was gradually cut off; as he moved the light gleamed from the blade he had concealed in one hand and Antoinette cried out a warning but it was too late. With a shout of pain her rescuer crumpled, involuntarily releasing the other man, who took to his heels without looking back. For several seconds she stood as though frozen before reason returned and she hurried to his side, trying to ignore the cooling bodies of the more unfortunate of her attackers.

"Where... where are you hurt?" she asked, fingers searching instinctively through his layers of clothing. He tried to bat her hands away but he was already weakening; he sagged to his knees and Antoinette found herself grasping his arm, struggling to keep him from sliding onto the dirty floor of the alley. His hat had fallen in the scuffle and she could see his face at last, or at least his profile: gaunt but distinguished, with deep-set eyes and a prominent nose... and then he turned, and she was immediately transported back several years to a fairground outside Paris and to a darkened tent proclaiming Miracles of Nature and Human Oddities, to a cage in which a man stood playing the most beautiful music on a violin, a man with the face of a rotting corpse...

"_Jules, we have to leave, now!"_

"_Oh, come on, Annie, just a few minutes. I want to see what everyone has been talking about," her fiancé protested as she tugged on his arm, trying to drag him from the tent. "The posters outside claim this man is the new da Vinci; a genius!"_

"_I don't care if he is, Jules, I won't stay here. It's too horrible; how can anyone think it right to keep another human being like that?" Despite her earlier promise to herself that she would not look, Antoinette could not help but stare in abject horror at the emaciated figure behind the bars. He was tall, but so thin it seemed he had never been given a square meal in his life; his shoulders hunched as though he was resigned to his fate, that his obvious captivity and ill-treatment had crushed whatever spirit he might once have had. Dirty clothes hung from his gaunt frame in rags; the only thing around him that seemed worth more than a few centimes was the violin he held almost reverently between his long white fingers._

_Jules Giry sighed. "You're reading far too much into this," he told her. "Everyone know these freaks display themselves like this for money; I expect when everyone's gone he settles down for the night in a cosy caravan with a glass of cognac."_

"_I don't think so," she whispered; through the ragged shirt he wore she caught a glimpse in the lamplight of welts and scabs across the man's back and knew that, whatever anyone else thought, he was not in the cage of his own free will. The stout padlock on the door attested to that. She pushed Jules desperately, wanting to be somewhere, anywhere else so that she did not have to be a participant in this appalling spectacle as the gypsy running the sideshow began an announcement._

"_Mesdames et Messieurs," he declared with obvious relish, "Feast your eyes on the terrible curse that has been visited upon this man, a man with the voice of an angel and the face of the Devil, a man who is so learned he claims to put the professors at the Sorbonne to shame, and who has such amazing talent at his disposal he once designed a maze of mirrors for the Shah of Persia! Come inside, if you dare, and behold the dreadful marvel of nature that is the Living Corpse!" _

_Turning to the cage behind him he reached through the bars and, with a flourish, tore away the filthy hessian sack that covered the prisoner's head, revealing not one face but two: as though someone had drawn a dividing line from forehead to chin, the man's features seemed almost to have been bisected, one side pale and drawn but might possibly have been handsome had their owner been in better condition. The other, however... Antoinette released her hold on Jules, clapping one hand over her mouth to stifle the cry that welled in her throat. The right side of the Living Corpse's face certainly merited the name; even years later she did not think she had ever seen anyone but the decomposing bodies left lying in the streets during the Commune look that way. Veins, muscles, blood vessels all seemed to be free to the air, twisted and warped across a cheek which appeared to have no definition, collapsing in on itself; bloated purple lips flared out towards the distortion, at one point almost meeting the nose that had apparently failed to develop on one side. She could barely see his eyes, so deeply sunk were they and hidden by the shadows; his head moved, and quite suddenly they caught the light and she caught her breath as he looked straight at her. Antoinette felt tears start in her own eyes for she had never seen another creature wear such an expression of sorrow and hopelessness._

_The gypsy shoved his captive's shoulder, cursing at him in a guttural language as his hand dropped towards the whip that hung from his belt. Antoinette thought she might be sick, but slowly, reluctantly, the Living Corpse lifted the violin, tucking it beneath his chin and closing his eyes as he touched the bow to the strings. The mutterings and catcalls that ran around the canvas walls of the tent died away, those who had paid their coin to see this freak of nature spellbound by the heavenly music he produced, so sad and sweet, his long fingers flying over the neck of the violin like those of a virtuoso. Only the gypsy appeared to be displeased as the mournful lament continued; walking to the door of the cage he unlocked it and entered, cuffing the Living Corpse around the head and startling him so much that his no doubt precious instrument would have fallen into the dirty straw had it not been for the deformed man's quick reflexes. Even from her position ten feet away Antoinette could see the spittle in the air as the gypsy swore, raining down more blows upon his prisoner._

"_Sing, damn you!" the gypsy yelled. "Sing!"_

_Antoinette closed her eyes, unable to watch any more. She felt a tug on her hand as Jules turned her away._

"_Come on," he said quietly. "I think we've seen enough."_

Antoinette's hand flew to her mouth and she must have gasped for her rescuer lifted his head despite the pain and obviously encroaching unconsciousness. His eyes, one blue, one dark met hers and a distressed howl escaped his lips as he obviously recognised the shock there. He instinctively covered the disfigured side of his face with his bloodied fingers but he was too slow; she had seen well enough, despite the dim light. "My mask," he whispered, fumbling around on the filthy floor with his other hand while Antoinette tried to support him. "Where is it? Where _is_ it?"

She recalled the sound of breaking china, and beyond him could make out the gleam of something white amongst the mud and straw. "I think it is broken." He tried to pull away from her but she held on tight. "Please, let me help you! Let me get you to a doctor - "

He shook his head violently. "No. No doctors. It is only a scrape along the ribs."

"It looks worse than that to me, Monsieur. If nothing else, let me help you home. Where do you live?"

"Live?" He blinked at her in confusion, the blood loss beginning to take its effect upon his senses.

"Yes. Where is your home? Is it far away?"

It seemed to take forever for the question to register, but when it did he struggled to get to his feet. Antoinette slid her arm across his shoulders, assisting him to stand; he wobbled slightly, but managed to remain upright, one hand still pressed against the right side of his face. "Rue Scribe," he said faintly, and she nodded, almost as an afterthought grabbing his hat from where it resided in the gutter as they awkwardly moved off. A few minutes later, however, she was staring around her in confusion; there were no residential buildings on this street, merely business premises and the smaller, but no less grand side entrance to the Opera. Her new acquaintance stumbled towards the sweeping staircase, and she wondered suddenly if he worked in the theatre; she was sure she would remember if she had seen him before but there were jobs that could be done within such a huge building without attracting attention to oneself.

"Monsieur, there is no one at the Opera now but the night watchmen; they will not let you inside without a valid reason," she told him. "Do you live above one of the shops? I will do my best to help you up the stairs."

He shook his head again, his hand moving from his face to his waistcoat, where he managed despite his trembling fingers to find a key that hung on his watch-chain. Freeing it with some difficulty he glanced up at her, remembering slightly belatedly to cover his deformity again. "Your assistance is appreciated, Madame, but I believe I can manage from here," he said and his voice was so calm and firm that she almost believed him. Almost, but not quite, as when he tried to pull away from her he nearly slipped on the cobbles and only her quick reaction saved him from a nasty fall.

"I don't want to leave you, Monsieur; you are in no condition to look after yourself."

"I will be perfectly fine; I have had plenty of practise at taking care of myself." Was there a trace of bitterness in his tone or had she imagined it?

"That may be so, but I would not forgive myself if anything happened to you. At least allow me to clean and wrap that wound for you," Antoinette insisted. "You saved me from the worst fate that can befall a woman, and probably my life, too; I am in your debt, Monsieur."

"You owe me nothing, Madame, I assure you. But..." He hesitated, his mismatched gaze moving between her face and the key in his hand. "I have never allowed anyone into my home. I do not... trust easily."

An image of the gypsy fair and the cage flashed through her mind's eye; she was certain now that this man and the Living Corpse were one and the same. "I can understand that," she said softly, and the eye she could see clearly widened in surprise. "But I will promise you one thing: you may trust me."

He looked at her for a long time, as though torn between believing her and protecting himself. Antoinette was sure that however he had managed to escape from his captors it would not have been easy; perhaps he was still hiding from them now. Eventually he sighed and nodded, before his gaze suddenly became quite fierce and he said, "Very well, Madame. But I will warn you: as you have seen I am a ruthless man and I will not tolerate betrayal. You must swear on that which you hold most dear that you will never reveal what I am about to show you to a living soul."

For a moment Antoinette wondered if she was indeed doing the right thing, before she pushed her doubts aside; she was in too deep now to back out. She thought of the bodies of the two street roughs lying cold in the alley behind them; if she left him would he follow and see that she met the same fate? Looking down and meeting his strange eyes, seeing how his breath had quickened and his hands shook as the effects of his injury took hold, she knew that she could not walk away now; something deep in her gut was telling her that this man needed her, that they had met tonight for a reason. Madame Reinard would keep an eye on Meg for a little while longer. "I swear it," she told him, and the ghost of a smile touched his lips.

"Well, then," he said, almost conversationally, as he struggled to stand up straight once more. "I was once a magician, Madame; let us see if I still retain the power to surprise..."


	2. Chapter 2

**THE HAND OF FATE**

**PART TWO**

Later, Antoinette recalled little of her first journey into the cellars of the Opera Populaire.

There was a little gate to one side of the Opera's Rue Scribe entrance, one so cunningly concealed that few would ever realise its existence, and it was towards this that her rescuer led her, his legs trembling and threatening to deposit him upon the dirty ground at any moment. Antoinette did her best to support him as he fumbled the key into the lock, feeling fresh blood trickling down his side from what was obviously more than just a scratch. He pointed her towards the lantern and matches hidden in a niche in the wall and together they made the bewildering descent into the echoing darkness.

They moved unbearably slowly, one step at a time, as the strange man gasped for breath, having to stop every few stairs to rest. Worried for him, she asked how far they needed to go. "Fifth cellar," he told her, adding with the ghost of a smile, "I value my privacy and there is nowhere deeper."

"That is all very well, Monsieur," Antoinette replied, taking a tighter grip on his arm over her shoulder, "But if you should faint and leave me here alone I confess I might wish you lived somewhere a little less out of the way. I have no desire to become stranded below the theatre."

"Never fear, Madame, I will not allow you to become lost," he said. "It would do me no good to have ballet mistresses running around my labyrinth. Should you wish to return at any time simply retrace your steps and keep turning left, but do please watch where you are treading; I should not like you to become a victim of one of my little... welcoming devices."

She glanced at him, trying to discern in the gloom if he was joking, but there was no trace of humour in his expression now, simply fatigue and bitterness. "You obviously do not desire visitors."

"Would you if you looked as I do?" he demanded harshly and guilt crept into her heart. Knowing as she did how he had been treated the comment was a tactless one and she immediately regretted it. After a beat he shook his head and his tone softened. "No, I fear I am cursed to spend the remainder of my days alone. I am well hidden here and here I shall remain, unmolested by the world."

There was a long pause, during which neither was inclined towards conversation and Antoinette concentrated on supporting her new friend down the remainder of what seemed to be a never-ending staircase, not an easy task when the man in question was considerably taller than her. By the time they finally reached the bottom he was barely able to stand and she gently helped him to sit on the last step, wrapping his cloak more tightly around him for it was almost bone-numbingly cold so far below ground. She hugged herself and stamped her feet, trying to restore the circulation.

"You know who I am, then," she remarked.

He leaned his head against the wall and regarded her from beneath heavy lids, his face turned just enough for his deformity to be cast into shadow. "I know everything that happens in my theatre. You are Antoinette Giry, née Brodeur, former Prima Ballerina of the Populaire, retired due to injury some... six years ago, was it?"

"Seven," Antoinette corrected. "A negligent stagehand did not secure a backdrop properly and it descended too fast for anyone to stop it; I was unable to move from its path in time and it knocked me to the floor, breaking my right leg. The injury healed but I no longer possess the strength to dance."

"And so you have rejoined your former company after a few years in the provinces in order to bring some discipline to the feather-headed rabble currently employed here." He looked thoughtful for a moment. "It must be difficult to return almost to the scene of your former triumphs."

She shrugged. "I was offered the position, and as I am a widow with a child to support I accepted. Beggars cannot be choosers, Monsieur, and I would have taken the job even if it meant teaching upon the very boards that witnessed the end of my career and the death of my dreams."

To her surprise the expression on his half a face was almost respectful. "Such determination is to be admired."

Antoinette inclined her head. "Thank you," she said. "Now, do you think you are ready to continue? It is cold and damp down here and I wish to look at that wound before it gets any worse; I have no doubt all this activity will have aggravated the incision."

Taking a deep breath he awkwardly heaved himself to his feet and she grabbed him under the arm again before he fell. "Very well, Madame," he grumbled, leaning his weight on her more heavily and almost causing her to stumble. "I can see I shall have no peace unless I acquiesce."

"Have we much further to go?"

There was a pause, and then he said in a voice that seemed to her to be full of both amusement and pride, "Not far. We are almost on the edge of Lake Averne."

* * *

There was a lake beneath the Opera House.

Antoinette had heard the rumours, of course; how could she not? Some of the crew were convinced that a body of water lay deep below the building, hidden under the cellars that housed the costume and prop stores. It was a fantastical notion, and being of a sensible, logical turn of mind with admittedly no knowledge of architecture she found it difficult to believe. For one thing, why would anyone need a lake so far underground? However, when the twisting staircase gave way to a broad expanse of flagstones and beyond them what in the flickering glow of the oil lamp she carried almost appeared to be a rocky shoreline she had to admit that perhaps she had been wrong.

"Lake Averne?" she repeated, raising an eyebrow at her rescuer.

He shrugged as well as he was able. "I decided it needed a name. Of course, it was not put here for aesthetic reasons; it keeps the water away from the foundations and acts as ballast for the stage machinery. Quite a stunning little design, if I do say so myself."

She blinked. "You designed the Opera Populaire?" Somehow that idea seemed even more ridiculous than an underground lake.

"Ah, I wish I could take the credit but no, I merely stepped in to help when no one could find a solution to the marshy ground upon which this building was erected." He sounded smug now, she decided. "Brilliant architects all, and none of them could envisage a way forwards."

"I think you are teasing me, Monsieur," Antoinette said firmly. "You need to lie down, and quickly because although you may be skin and bones I know I cannot carry you."

He swayed on his feet and peered at her, frowning. "You are rather rude, Madame. I don't know why I allowed you into my home."

"Perhaps you have been alone too long," she suggested, wordlessly coaxing him to move again by taking a step forwards herself and forcing him to follow.

There was a heavy sigh, and when he spoke again his voice was so quiet that she barely caught the words. "I have been alone almost my entire life."

He was silent until they reached what appeared to be bare rock, a blank wall that led nowhere. His head lolled onto her shoulder and Antoinette tapped his cheek to rouse him; after a moment or two he blinked owlishly and pointed with a shaky hand towards a line in the wall, little more than a dark shadow. She lifted the lamp, bending forwards and squinting in the dim light, and found to her astonishment that in the rock was a very ordinary keyhole! Trying not to let her mouth drop open in shock she turned back to her companion to see him holding out a key, his fingers now trembling so much he nearly dropped it. Marshalling her thoughts and pushing her curiosity very firmly to the back of her mind she took it, inserting the key into the lock; it turned easily and the almost invisible door swung inwards with barely a sound.

* * *

Whatever she might have been expecting to find behind the door, it was safe to say that a quite ordinary hallway with a hat rack on one side and a battered table on the other came as something of a surprise. Doorways led from the hall, some with chipped doors and others covered by dusty velvet curtains that surely must have come from one of the prop stores in the cellars above; a long Chinese runner lay on the floorboards, warming the rather austere space with its deep reds and blacks, white flowers twisting back and forth along its length and claiming her attention for a ridiculously long time simply by virtue of its normality, for she was having trouble processing the fact that she was standing on the threshold of a house, and that house had somehow been built into the rock below the Opera Populaire.

Antoinette turned to question her mysterious companion but his head was drooping again; he had lost too much blood already and she did not know what she was going to do if the wound required professional attention. It would be impossible to bring a doctor down here, with all the awkward questions that would bring, even if he agreed to such a course of action. Taking a firmer grip on his waist she managed to get him to walk a few steps into the hall and set the lamp down on the table, closing the door carefully behind them. She touched his cheek again and his eyes flickered.

"Where is your bed?" she asked.

It took a few moments for him to consider the question, but when he understood he waved a hand vaguely towards the doors on the left of the hall; with a sigh she lifted the lantern once more, and after two attempts located the correct room, a sparsely-furnished chamber holding little more than an iron-framed bedstead and scuffed chest of drawers with mismatched knobs. Carefully she lowered him down onto the mattress; he lay back with a groan, face twisted in a grimace of pain; Antoinette could see even in the lamplight that the front of his shirt and waistcoat were dark and slick with blood.

Putting down the lamp yet again she realised at how much of a loss she was; even if he had medical supplies down here, which she doubted, the light was so poor that she might end up harming more than helping him. She clucked her tongue in impatience and frustration; she would have to return to the surface to fetch iodine and bandages, and perhaps a needle and thread if the wound was bad enough. Though possessed of a reasonably strong stomach she did not relish the idea of having to stitch the flesh of a complete stranger as she would the ribbons on a new pair of pointe shoes but she would do it if necessary. It seemed her companion, for all his fading awareness, seemed to have divined her dilemma, however, as he turned his head and whispered,

"Candles in the fourth drawer. Spare sheets under the blankets in the sea chest."

Relieved that she had something practical to do, Antoinette turned up the wick on the lantern and set about finding what she needed. There were indeed candles; long white ones of good quality wax, along with a box of matches, and after discovering a branched candelabrum amongst the shadows that gathered in the corners of the room she soon had more than enough light to work by. Sadly, illumination only revealed the pitiful nature of the accommodation; despite the impossibility of its existence and the evident genius of its construction it was clear that the house's owner was not wealthy for the furniture was battered and only just serviceable, probably sourced from cast-offs and what could be found and spirited away from the lumber rooms of the theatre. Antoinette knew that though the Opera House was barely two years old the props and costumes from the productions staged at the company's previous home had all been transported to its new one and stored away to gather dust; only last week some of her ballerinas had been parading themselves in some tatty old paste jewellery that had probably been in storage since before they were born, doubtless ransacked from one of the many trunks that lurked in the cellars. A wash basin stood on a packing case to one side of the bed, a tin mug containing a razor and shaving brush next to it, combs and brushes and a jar of hair pomade carefully laid out, but there was no sign of a mirror; Antoinette glanced at the ravaged side of her rescuer's face and her heart clenched in sympathy.

Pulling herself together she went in search of something she could use for bandages, and after further faint instruction from the wounded man she also discovered antiseptic and sticking plaster. From there she was suddenly stymied, for how on earth was she to find clean water all the way down here? Her new friend raised his head slightly and a pained chuckle escaped him as he beheld her standing there, the basin in her hands and an expression of consternation on her face.

"There is a lake outside, Madame," he reminded her with a cough which he hastily smothered. "I am working on the plumbing but until it is perfected the lake must suffice. It is quite uncontaminated, I assure you."

Cursing herself for not thinking of it before, Antoinette hurried off. By the time she returned, he had somehow managed to remove his cloak and it lay across the end of the bed, his hat sitting neatly on top; in the shadows she had not noticed but now it was painfully clear that though his clothes had once been of good quality, the fabric rich, they were now beginning to wear. The nap on the brim of his hat was shiny, the edges of the cloak starting to fray. As she helped him out of his jacket she saw that the sleeves were an inch or two too short, as though the garment had been made for someone else entirely; a quick glance revealed that the hems of his trousers were much the same. It occurred to her that perhaps he had come by his clothes in the same manner as his furniture.

He tensed, his breath quickening, when she began to unbutton his shirt and an image of the cage and the gypsy with his whip sprang unbidden into her mind. "It's all right, I'm not going to hurt you," she assured him softly and he relaxed; only a fraction but enough for her to spread the ruined fabric open so that she might finally see the damage caused by Joseph's knife. It took her a while to clean away the dried blood that made gauging the severity so difficult, but eventually she had his scarred torso free of gore and discovered that the gash, although more than a mere scrape along the ribs, was not as deep as she had initially feared. She did not think he would be needing stitches, thank goodness.

Her patient bore her ministrations without a sound, but when she poured some of the antiseptic onto a cloth and touched it gently to the wound there was a quick intake of breath and his abdomen quivered beneath her hand though he did his best to remain still. As she cleaned the gash as carefully she could the muscles around it jumped as she heard a whimper that he bit down upon almost immediately. His self-control was quite incredible and once again she thought back to the fair and the scars she had seen upon his back, scars that doubtless matched those that gleamed white now in the candlelight; had he taught himself not to react to the beatings he must have endured, refusing to give those tormenting him the screams they desired?

Eventually she was done and she laid a pad of cloth taken from a ripped-up sheet over the wound, helping him to sit so that she could wrap an improvised bandage around his waist, securing it with strips of sticking plaster. He was as unresponsive as a rag doll by now and did not resist when she tugged off his shirt, sliding it from his shoulders; she found a nightshirt in one of the drawers and slipped it over his head, deciding to leave him his trousers and his dignity even though she knew he would be more comfortable without them. Instead she settled for removing his shoes, and discovered with a pang of pity that his stockings were almost worn to holes. When it was over she allowed him to lie down once more, tucking him in and throwing an extra blanket onto the bed; there was no sign of a stove or fireplace and despite its obvious ingenuity the house was damp and cold. The last thing a wounded man needed was to catch a chill.

Lightly she laid a hand on his forehead to check for any sign of fever, and he flinched sharply making her draw away in surprise. He murmured something under his breath, words she couldn't catch, his face screwing up in pain. Antoinette's heart went out to him and she ventured to touch him again, stroking his hair until he quietened, like Meg after a nightmare.

Meg!

Dear God, she had forgotten all about her daughter! Hastily she reached for the discarded black silk waistcoat, fumbling the watch she had seen clipped to its pocket and flicking open the lid. The hands ticked mercilessly towards two o'clock in the morning; she had abandoned poor little Meg for more than three hours! Her first instinct was to run back to her child but as she gathered up her hat and coat the sight of the unconscious man in the bed stirred guilt and compassion within her and she knew she couldn't just walk away from him, not after everything that had happened. Putting a hand to her pocket she realised that she had dropped the door key there for safekeeping; her mind working furiously she wondered if she dare take it away with her. Would he notice its absence? It was likely that he would sleep for some time, his strength severely depleted from the loss of blood. Injured and alone, there was no one else to check on him, to change the dressings on his wound and make sure that infection did not set in; she would not be able to live with herself if she turned her back on him now.

Decision made, she buttoned her coat and blew out all but two of the candles. If she left early enough she could leave Meg with Mademoiselle Giroux, the wardrobe mistress's assistant who had offered to look after the little girl while her mother was working and to whom Antoinette knew she would be eternally grateful, and slip below before rehearsals began. Checking that her patient was warm enough but not too hot for that would indicate complications, she hurried towards the door, hoping that she would remember the way back to the surface on her own.

"Au revoir, Monsieur," she called softly before she closed the door, "Sleep well."


	3. Chapter 3

**THE HAND OF FATE**

**PART THREE**

"It's gone! I'm sure I left it on the dressing table last night, but now there's no sign of it!"

The corps de ballet of the Opera Populaire, most of whom were currently fluttering about the mirrored practise room, their white tulle and muslin making them resemble nothing so much as a flock of startled doves, stared at their unofficial leader, hands to mouths that were open in soundless wonder. Madame Giry stepped over the threshold as quietly as she could, curious to know precisely what tall tale from Justine Sorelli was holding them spellbound this time; she took up a stance in the corner, where only the most observant amongst them might spot her, and folded her arms as Sorelli (or La Sorelli as she insisted she wished to be known, her sights upon the coveted role of Prima Ballerina; Antoinette had been quick to inform her ambitious pupil that such titles had to be earned, adulation belonged to no performer by right) dropped her voice to a stage whisper and declared,

"The Opera Ghost took it!"

There was a chorus of 'oohs' and 'ahhs' from her captive little audience. Clothilde, one of the older dancers who thankfully had a sensible head on her shoulders, frowned. "But surely, this building is so new; how can there possibly be a ghost?" she asked. Some of the others tried to shush her but she persevered. "And why on earth would it want to steal your powder puff?"

"Not just my powder puff," Sorelli insisted, rolling her eyes in annoyance at this lone dissenting voice. "My new pointe shoes have vanished, too, and the bottle of perfume that was sent to me by the Vicomte de Chagny last week."

There was a squeal from one of the girls, a silly little red-head called Astrid who constantly muddled her rondes des jambs with her temps de cuisse. "You had a gift from a _patron_..? What's he like, Justine, is he handsome? Has he taken you to dinner yet?"

A dreamy smile briefly crossed Sorelli's pretty face. "Yes, he's very handsome," she said, her gaze softening for a moment before her attention snapped back to the matter in hand. "And no, he hasn't. I'm not that sort of girl; it will take more than scent to woo me." She stamped her slipper-clad foot. "That ghost needs exorcising!"

"Why would a ghost want to take cheap scent?" Clothilde wondered wearily.

"It won't have been _cheap_ scent if it came from the Vicomte de Chagny," Astrid pointed out. "He probably chose it from one of the most exclusive perfumiers in Paris!"

The older ballerina pulled a face at her colleague's naivety. "He's more likely to have given the commission to his housekeeper, who probably sent one of the maids out for it, and I doubt they would even get past the front door of one of those establishments."

"You are horrible, Clothilde." Astrid pouted. "If Philippe de Chagny admirers Justine, why wouldn't he want to give her the best?"

"Noblemen do not get their hands dirty, even when they _are_ trying to entice a brainless ballerina into their bed," Clothilde informed her bluntly, and Sorelli went pink right up to her ears at being described as such.

"It hardly matters now, since this ghost has stolen the perfume," said Marianne, tossing her burnished ringlets, the result of many painstaking hours with curling irons, disdainfully over her shoulder. "Maybe it's partial to scent; do you think it was a woman when it was alive?"

Clothilde sighed impatiently. "For the last time, there _is_ no ghost! The Opera hasn't had time to gain a spectre wandering the corridors; the building was barely finished a year ago - "

"Just because you say so, it doesn't make you right," the other girl snapped. "Has anyone seen the ghost?"

"Joseph Buquet, the new junior fly man says he has," Sorelli announced loudly in an attempt to regain their attention. "He heard me scream when I found my things were missing, and he told me he saw a figure in a long black cloak up on the catwalks. He said the sight made cold fingers run up and down his spine, as if someone was reaching for him from beyond the grave!"

Antoinette decided this nonsense had gone on long enough; emerging from the shadows she banged her cane on the ground twice, slowly and deliberately. The sound had the effect of scattering her charges like the birds they resembled as she walked into their midst. "I think that is quite enough," she said, casting them all a baleful glare. "I'll thank you to concentrate on your steps, Justine Sorelli, and keep your fairytales to yourself."

"But it's true, Madame Giry!" the girl protested, and several of the other dancers nodded in agreement. "Monsieur Buquet was up in the flies on his own last night and he saw that dark shadow with his own eyes!"

"A theatre like this is full of shadows. The man should be ashamed of himself, frightening impressionable young ladies!" Antoinette thumped her cane on the boards again. "I shall be having words with Monsieur Buquet. As Clothilde, the one voice of reason here, has repeatedly told you, a building this new cannot possibly be haunted. Such tales are nothing more than superstitious claptrap."

"Oh, but it isn't, Madame Giry, honestly," Astrid piped up, her face paling as the ballet mistress looked at her with narrowed eyes. She marshalled her courage, however, and persisted. "The ghost moves things, props and costumes go missing and the stage hands have lost their lunch; their wives send them off with a baguette and a half bottle of wine but by twelve o'clock the food has completely disappeared from the box it was locked in!"

"And sometimes you can hear music in the night, with no one there playing it!" Marianne added, not to be outdone. "I _know_ that's true; Monsieur Allard the harpist told me and he had it from the manager's secretary."

"What utter rubbish," Antoinette declared, though at the back of her mind doubts had begun to niggle as soon as vanishing food was mentioned. There could be few places someone living beneath the theatre could go to find sustenance without drawing attention to themselves. "Get into line, all of you. Last night's performance was a disgrace; we will rehearse, and we will rehearse all day if necessary. And if I hear one more word about this so-called Opera Ghost I will have you all on extra practise for a month, do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, Madame Giry," they chorused. She ignored the mutinous looks Sorelli was shooting in her direction and raised her cane to beat the time.

"Now... one, two, three, four! First position..."

* * *

It was after midday before Antoinette had a chance to return to the cellars, having been caught in conversation with the garrulous wardrobe mistress when she called in to leave Meg with Mademoiselle Giroux and then summoned to see the manager about the ballet planned for the next production. Rehearsals had kept her busy for the next few hours, so busy that she barely managed to catch a few minutes to reassure her daughter, who had woken in the night and noticed her maman's absence. Thankfully, Meg was a practical child despite her tender age and not one to upset herself unnecessarily; she accepted her mother's explanation quite readily, happy enough once Antoinette explained that she had gone back for her bag and been forced to take the long way home because of a disturbance in the streets. Antoinette did not like lying but at six years old Meg was far too young to understand and she told herself that she was just bending the truth a little for the sake of expediency.

By the time she found herself opening the gate on the Rue Scribe, checking repeatedly over her shoulder to make sure she was not being observed, she was rather worried for her mysterious patient; in the cold of the cellars and such Spartan surroundings she could not help but fear for his health. There was no one but her to check and change the dressings on that wound and images of him burning up with fever from a delayed infection, delirious and alone, loomed large in her mind as she hurried down the winding staircase that led to his subterranean realm.

The tunnels were freezing and she was glad she took the precaution of wearing her coat and hat; her breath fogged in the air around her as she eventually reached the lake. Belatedly she had remembered his warning about 'welcoming devices' and stepped carefully on every other stair during her descent, avoiding any that looked unusual in the shifting shadows thrown by the lamplight. Her toe almost caught in an all but invisible tripwire laid across one, which she noticed at the last minute from the corner of her eye; lifting her foot high she continued downwards, lamenting the inhuman treatment that would drive a man to such precautions.

At last she was standing before the hidden door. It took three passes with the lantern before she found the keyhole; quietly she let herself in and debated removing her outer garments for a moment before the frigid air convinced her to leave them on. There was no sound within the house; as she closed the front door behind her she waited for a few moments but nothing stirred and worry began to rise within her chest. Lifting the lamp and taking a firmer grip on the basket she had brought from home she made her way towards the bedroom; as she entered she set down the provisions on the chest of drawers and lowered the wick so as not to startle him with sudden light. In the gloom she could hear his breathing, and was relieved when it sounded steady enough, if a little strained.

Quietly she made her way to his bedside; he still seemed to be sleeping and so she drew up the old kitchen chair over which she had folded his cloak and jacket the night before and sat down, leaning forwards to lay a hand lightly on his forehead, gauging the presence or absence of fever as she would with Meg. The gnarled and twisted skin on the damaged side of his brow felt strange beneath her fingers; in the dim light it appeared as though his left eyebrow was missing, leaving just the ridge where it should have been. Though his face would indeed be viewed as terrible by many, she felt no fear or revulsion at the sight of it; they were all equal in God's eyes, all the same underneath. No matter how horrific his appearance he was just a man.

Her touch made him stir. After a few moments his eyes fluttered open and Antoinette drew back; he stared at her in consternation, as though trying to remember who she was, and his hand shot under the pillow in a movement that seemed instinctive, the action of someone used to having to defend himself. When he withdrew it his hand was empty and he frowned before the memory of the previous night's events apparently returned and he shook his head, cursing beneath his breath.

"You are still here," he said, and there was a touch of surprise in his tone. He looked at her, his peculiar mismatched gaze almost pinning her to the back of the chair. "Why are you still here?"

"Would you rather I walked away without looking back?" she asked.

His mouth tightened into a thin line. "You would not be the first, Madame. I am quite used to abandonment, I assure you."

Despite the cold words Antoinette had not missed the brief flash of vulnerability in his eyes. She smoothed down the blankets, tucking them in where his movements during the night had dislodged them. "Perhaps, Monsieur, but I am not one to leave when I am needed. I did have to return to my daughter but as you can see I have not forgotten you. If you wish me to go I will, of course, but I know that when one is ill or in pain the company of another often eases the suffering." Sitting back she folded her hands in her lap and watched the emotions that crossed his face: fear, astonishment and confusion chased one another over his contradictory features. It occurred to her that he was not unattractive, even with such a disfigurement: there was nobility in his brow, and evidence of a fine bone structure that had sadly all but collapsed on the right side of his face; his mouth was firm and strong before the lips flared and bloated and the half of his nose that had developed properly was straight and well-proportioned. It was almost heart-breaking to see what the cruel hand of fate had done to him.

As if he had belatedly become aware of her scrutiny, he threw up a hand to cover his deformity, shrinking back against his pillows. "I would not know," he whispered. "No one has ever offered to ease Erik's suffering before."

It was an odd way of speaking but Antoinette's attention was caught by just one word. "'Erik'?" she repeated. "Is that your name?"

He at first looked angry with himself for allowing such a personal piece of information to slip out, but after a beat he nodded. "It is... or rather it was, once. No one has called me that in a very long time."

"Well, would it bother you if I were to use your name?" she asked, and when he did not reply she held out her hand. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Monsieur Erik; I am Antoinette Giry."

"I know who you are, Madame." He peered at her hand as though he thought it might bite him.

"Ah, yes, but we have not been properly introduced. Will you not shake my hand?"

Genuine bewilderment creased the side of his face she could see. "Whatever for?"

"Because that is what polite people do when they have just met a new acquaintance," Antoinette told him lightly, the explanation one she would have expected to use with a child. She offered her hand again and after a long pause he took it very gingerly, touching little more than the tips of her fingers. It was an awkward shake, as he had extended his left hand, the right still firmly over his face, and a short one; he withdrew as quickly as possible, as if her touch had burned him. His fingers were long and thin, his skin so pale that she doubted he had seen the sun in quite some time.

"It is a... pleasure to meet you, Madame," he said hoarsely.

Reaching over to the lantern she turned up the wick, and went to fetch more candles from the drawer to replace those that had burned down during the night. She felt his gaze on her as she moved about the room, but when she turned to face him there was no hostility in his eyes, only curiosity. "That is better," she observed. "Now I can see properly. How are you feeling today?"

It was a fairly innocuous question but when his mouth worked silently in surprise she realised it was one he had apparently not been asked before. "I... I am well enough, I suppose," he replied eventually.

"Do you feel hot or cold?" Antoinette enquired, adding as she noticed the bruise blossoming across his cheek that had been all but invisible in the shadows, "Any dizziness? Blurred vision?"

"I am a little cold, but then the cellars are hardly a hothouse." Erik jumped when she rested the back of her hand against his forehead; he tried to pull away and hissed in pain as the movement jarred his injury. "My vision is perfectly clear."

"Hmm," she mused. "You do not feel feverish, which is a good sign. Will you allow me to check the wound? I would not like it to become infected from neglect."

He flushed. "That will not be necessary, Madame," he said firmly. "I will deal with it."

"It will be easier if you let me help," she insisted. "Thankfully it is not as deep as I feared but it is still in an awkward place and you may hurt yourself further trying to reach it."

Those mismatched eyes met hers for a long moment, and she had the uncomfortable feeling that he was trying to look inside her head. He was obviously searching for something he expected yet failed to find there for he heaved a deep sigh and nodded sharply. Oddly relieved, Antoinette fetched clean bandages and gauze from her basket and went to fill the bowl with water from the lake. By the time she returned he was sitting up, though the loss of blood had weakened him enough for him to need the headboard for support. His hand was still over the distorted side of his face, and she recalled the broken china she had seen on the floor of the alley, the face made of bone that had apparently loomed out of the darkness.

"You need not hide your face," she said quietly as she began to unwrap her improvised dressings. "It does not disgust or frighten me."

A bitter laugh escaped him. "You would be the first to say so, Madame. All who have seen Erik's face have reacted with fear and loathing."

"Have I given you reason to doubt my words?" Antoinette asked, raising her head to look him in the eye. "I saw your face for what it is last night, and yet I am still here. It is just a face, just skin and bone."

He snarled, the bloated upper lip drawing back and giving him a feral appearance that had been entirely absent before; she involuntarily backed away a pace or two. "You would not speak that way had you lived with it for more than thirty years!" he shouted, his voice cracking. His chin dropped towards his chest and his next words were those of a bewildered child. "How can you even bear to look at me?"

_Thirty years_... She realised with a jolt that he might be of an age with her, perhaps older. How long had he been in that fair? Having been treated in such a way it was no wonder he found it so difficult to trust. "I am sorry," she said, and meant it. He looked up, surprised to hear the words, and some of the sudden anger seemed to drain from his features. "I am sorry that you have been hurt and ridiculed for something beyond your control. I am sorry for the disgraceful behaviour of my fellow men. No one should be punished for being that which God has seen fit to make them. Your face is not your fault."


	4. Chapter 4

**THE HAND OF FATE**

**PART FOUR**

Erik swallowed hard. "You cannot mean that."

"I am an honest woman, Monsieur," Antoinette told him sternly. "It is not in my nature to lie."

"You are indeed a most remarkable woman," he breathed, strange eyes glistening in the candlelight as he looked away, unable to meet her gaze. "Not even Erik's mother could look upon his face."

"I once visited a gypsy fair," she confessed, her heart swelling with sympathy for him. "I saw something there that I could never forget: a tent full of so-called human oddities; an iron cage, and a man playing the most beautiful music on the violin. That man was - "

"You need say no more, Madame," he interrupted, his voice tight. "I need no reminders of that place."

She nodded, and they were silent as she unwound the bandages to reveal the wound, a long red line across his terribly pale chest, emphasising the last bone of a ribcage that was far too prominent to be healthy. He flinched as she gently touched the edges of the cut, reassuring herself that there was no hint of infection. It would be another scar to add those that criss-crossed his skin, another memento of life's cruelties. Carefully she cleaned and bound it once more, and brought him water so that he might wash; he waved her away when she offered assistance and so she allowed him his privacy, taking a candle and assuring him that she would be within call if needed.

Her natural curiosity could not prevent her taking the opportunity to explore a little more of the underground house. There were several other rooms but all were empty save one which held piles of books and, much to her astonishment, a beautiful grand piano covered with a worn but richly-patterned cloth. How he had managed to get such an instrument down all of those stairs unaided without compromising its condition was a mystery, but his dedication to music was quite obvious; a battered violin case lay on the piano, its occupant polished and pristine, and Antoinette discovered folios of manuscript paper covered with a large masculine hand, notes and bars scribbled down, crossed out and rewritten it seemed in haste lest their composer forget them when suddenly struck with inspiration. There were libretti for various operas in the collection, most of which had apparently been filched from the theatre's store as she recognised performers' copies of some of the Populaire's most recent productions; careful notes had been made in the margins, and a page of recommendations for _Anna Bolena_ that she skimmed through, finding herself nodding in agreement with some of the suggested alterations. Whoever this man was, and wherever he had come from before the gypsies found him, he obviously understood opera, probably more than those currently in charge of the Populaire.

Reluctantly she put the libretto back where she found it and moved on. In the last room she tried there was a small stove and a few mismatched items of crockery; it was the most pathetic little kitchen Antoinette had ever seen, and, along with the meagre rations of dried fruit and some stale bread, explained Erik's lack of flesh. It seemed music was far more important to him than food, and she was glad she had brought some provisions from home; he would not recover if he did not eat. Finding a battered kettle she lit the stove, not stopping to wonder how the smoke would escape, and fetched more water from the lake; discovering a few leaves in a canister she soon had a cup of tea to take to him and another for herself. There was no milk or sugar, but it would have to do.

By the time she returned to the bedroom her patient was sitting up against his poorly-stuffed pillows, a scarf tied across the disfigured side of his face. It looked faintly ludicrous but he seemed much calmer, more like the man who had rescued her the night before, as though he was able to exert more control over himself when his deformity was covered. He glanced up as she entered, the two chipped cups on a makeshift tray, and surprise briefly flickered in the one eye she could see. Antoinette handed him a cup and resumed her seat beside the bed, delicately sipping her own tea and trying not to grimace at the taste.

"I have some bread and cheese in the basket if you are hungry," she told him. "I am glad I thought to bring it; your domestic arrangements leave a little to be desired."

His only serviceable eyebrow arched upwards. "My apologies, Madame. I am not used to entertaining."

"Perhaps you should consider starting."

He laughed shortly. "You imagine anyone would be willing to venture all the way down here for tea and conversation, in neither of which I find myself proficient?"

"You are doing reasonably well at the latter," Antoinette remarked. "And the former is quite easily learned, though the result would be rather more palatable if you owned a teapot."

"I have more important matters with which to concern myself." He put the barely-touched cup to one side and directed his disconcerting gaze straight at her; if he hoped to intimidate he was out of luck, for the effect was spoiled by his makeshift mask and she was not one to give way to male belligerence. Something told her, however, that this man was different from those with whom she dealt on a regular basis; within the few minutes she was gone from the room he had recovered his poise, and she had the peculiar impression that she was being regarded as a cat might look at a mouse. Antoinette straightened her spine and lifted her chin.

"Indeed," she said. "Would those matters happen to involve moving powder puffs and causing bottles of perfume to disappear?"

The visible corner of Erik's mouth quirked slightly. "I am surprised those feather-brained ballet rats of yours even noticed."

"Oh, they noticed, Monsieur. Do you know what they are calling you?" Antoinette asked, and when he said nothing continued, "The Opera Ghost! Of all the absurdities... why do you do it? Is your existence so dull that you have to frighten silly young girls?"

"You have no notion of the emptiness of my existence, Madame! You know _nothing_ of my life!" he snapped, eyes flashing with anger, long fingers fisting the blankets. "If I choose to amuse myself with those whose intelligence is inferior to mine what of it? I am doing no harm."

"You are giving rise to rumours and ridiculous stories. One of the new stage hands is already encouraging my girls. And think of this: what if one of them saw you? I doubt if the manager would appreciate your circumstances if your home down here was discovered." Her voice softened, and impulsively she reached out to touch his hand; he flinched and shied away and she cursed herself for her boldness. "Whatever your reasons for choosing to live so far from society I would not want to see you turned out onto the street; you must be careful. You were seen last night, and this new man claims to have spotted someone up on the catwalks above the stage. I am only concerned for your safety," she added, and he looked up in surprise.

"Why?" he asked. "Why would you care about me?"

"Because you helped me," Antoinette said honestly. "I owe you my life."

He shook his head. "You owe me nothing, Madame; you have already done more than enough to discharge any debt. Take my advice: never find yourself beholden to anyone. It is not a pleasant position to be in." Unexpectedly-white teeth gnawed at his bloated lip for a moment, and he sighed. "Please, do not think that you must continue to watch over this carcass; I can assure you that I will be quite able to take care of myself now." Turning away he tried to sit up straighter and reach for the dressing gown that hung over the end of the bed; unable to stretch that far he sank back with a groan and she took pity on him, fetching the robe and wrapping it gently around his shoulders, surprised to find that it was an extravagantly-embroidered Oriental piece, with a dragon snaking its way down the back. She wondered whether it had come from the costume stores. Tersely he nodded his thanks, and glanced up at her. "Your daughter will be missing her maman. Go to her; you may return to the world above and cease to think of me."

"I am a mother, Monsieur, and that is why I will not forget you," she told him. "We all need someone to watch over us, some more than others."

"Rehearsals will be starting," he said in reply, picking up a book from the stack beside the bed. "Sorelli needs to work on her jeté, and Mademoiselle Pascal should take some instruction if she hopes to be a successful Juliet. Her upper register is extremely weak; I cannot think why that fool of a manager cast her."

"Perhaps you should offer him your services, if you are so knowledgeable in such matters," Antoinette remarked lightly. He grunted, and then fell silent, his attention apparently on the page before him. She sighed inwardly. "I will leave the food in case you regain your appetite later. May I visit you again, just to see how you are getting on? That dressing will need changing again."

There was no response, and so she made her way to the door and was about to leave when he spoke again, almost making her jump. "You may hold your head up high in this theatre, Madame. Whatever might happen, be assured that the 'Ghost' is watching over you... and your daughter."

* * *

Antoinette pondered his words all the way back to the surface, and they were still on her mind at the end of rehearsal.

Though it was reassuring to know that he was concerned for her safety, she could not imagine why she might need protection within the Opera. By now she had decided that her attackers from the previous night were opportunists, taking advantage of a lone woman; with this in mind, for Meg's welfare as much of her own she made arrangements to walk home with Mademoiselle Giroux and the assistant repetiteur, Eugene Reyer, both of whom lived in the same general direction, and she could not believe that 'Joseph' would try to harm her again after what had happened to his friends. He would be long gone by now, and even if the police had taken it into their heads to search for the killer of two vagrants it was highly unlikely that they would consider searching the cellars of the Opera Populaire. She felt a twinge of conscience when she thought of those men, lying dead in the alley, but when she considered the alternative, herself robbed and violated and Meg perhaps orphaned, she could not spare them much more than a prayer for their souls. Shaking her head and telling herself that she wouldn't think of them again, she gathered up her practise scores and cane and turned to leave the rehearsal room to collect Meg; it had been a long day and her daughter was sure to be tired. Meg had been pestering her lately to join the ballet school, but Antoinette kept telling her that she was too young; it was true that Meg was showing promise, but she wanted to wait until her little girl was sure that dancing was in her soul before she committed herself to a life of punishing hard work. With a sigh she realised that since returning to the Opera she had had precious little time to spend with her daughter. Tomorrow was Sunday and a day off; perhaps after visiting Jules's grave they could go for a walk along the Seine and Meg could feed the ducks. She could put last night behind her.

And for the next few days she did, until one evening she found herself the last to leave, locking up the practise room for the night. Humming a tune from Gounod's opera she was about to make her way down the corridor towards the wardrobe when she heard a footstep nearby; she stopped, wondering who would be lurking about down here when rehearsal was done for the day. The step was too heavy to be any of her ballerinas and it certainly did not belong to Sergei, the principal male dancer. "Who's there?" she called, tightening her grip on her cane. "Come out at once!"

There was a pause, and then a figure emerged into the gaslight. Short and stocky, balding already despite his relative youth and with a leer on his brown teeth, he wore a stained stage hand's apron, his sleeves rolled up to the elbow and a coil of rope slung over one shoulder; with one hand he knuckled his forehead, the grin widening. "Evening, Madame," he said, and even if she had not recognised his face despite the shadows in the alley the previous night she would have known his voice anywhere.

Her blood ran cold. It was 'Joseph', the leader of her attackers, and he had apparently found employment at the Populaire.

* * *

"It's him, I know it is," she said, pacing the floor of what she had already mentally designated Erik's 'music room', wringing her hands together. He was sitting at the piano, still looking incredibly pale but thankfully stronger than he had been, a disgruntled expression on the half of his face she could see, the other still obscured by a dextrously-knotted scarf. She had arrived at his door, still somewhat agitated after another encounter with the man she now knew as Joseph Buquet, the fly chief's new assistant, in the wings; he did not look pleased to see her, but courteously invited her in and deflected her questions regarding his health with the skill of someone accustomed to revealing very little about themselves. "What is he doing here? Did he somehow inveigle his way into the theatre to follow me?"

With a heavy sigh Erik rubbed a hand over his undamaged features. "I very much doubt such a situation would be possible unless he had been following you for months. The stage manager is a sensible man and does not hire new employees on a whim; it would seem that this Buquet has been working here for nearly a four weeks."

"Then why did you not tell me? Was this what you meant when you said you would be watching over Meg and I?" Antoinette demanded. "How could you let me go back up there without telling me of the danger?"

"There _is_ no danger!" He slammed his hand down on the piano keys and a discordant crash echoed around the room. "Did I not say that you could walk through the theatre without fear? I chose not to tell you because I did not believe such information to be relevant; had I mentioned the man's position within the company you would have done exactly as you are doing now and come down here to pester me. I desire to be left _alone_, Madame; how many times must I tell you?"

She allowed the noise to die away before she asked tightly, "If you desired solitude so greatly why did you bother to rescue me in the first place? You might have just abandoned me to my fate."

"I don't know," he said, hunching over the instrument and making her wonder if he was in pain. "Evidently the conscience I thought was long dead still stirs somewhere deep within." After a considerable pause he glanced round, fixing her with a gimlet stare. "However, I am still a man who abhors society and has been left no alternative but to make his home so far from the eyes of the world. I have endured it thus far but I do not care for your continued invasion of my solitude. Will you take my assurance that Joseph Buquet will never lay another hand upon you and leave me in peace?"

Antoinette was not sure whether it was fear for herself or for her child that made the next words emerge from her mouth but she wished mere seconds later that she had never uttered them. "How do I know I can trust you?"

His spine stiffened, the fingers that had been resting upon the piano keys clenching into fists. With an obvious effort he got to his feet and paced towards her, drawing himself up as far as possible to his full, intimidating height. "You asked me to trust _you_, if I recall correctly," he said softly, a definite edge to his voice. "Was I wrong to do so? I have, against my better judgement, allowed you into my home, my sanctuary, more than I have ever before permitted a living soul. Please do not make me think I have made a mistake."

"You _can_ trust me," she replied, meeting his gaze defiantly. "Had I wanted to I could have brought the gendarmes down here at any time over the last few days; I could have easily told Monsieur Duchamps about you but I did not. I gave you my word that I would not reveal the existence of this place and I will stand by that promise."

"You wish me to give my trust and yet you are not willing to do the same?" He laughed bitterly and turned away. "Why should I be surprised? Human nature was ever thus; a monster deserves neither consideration nor respect."

"No!" Antoinette found herself running forwards as he walked with heavy tread back to the piano. Even with only one eye properly visible the pain and vulnerability within had been obvious, if barely for a moment before he successfully fought it down. Images of the gypsy fair and the cage swam into her mind once more. "You must forgive me, Monsieur. I am frightened; frightened for my daughter. If that dreadful man sees her, if – God in heaven I hope he never comes within ten feet of her – he were to lay a hand on her... I would go mad, Monsieur, I swear to you. I cannot bear the thought of him being near us."

Erik had reclaimed his seat on the piano stool; he sat there, as still as a statue, for some time, leaving her anxious and trembling as, she supposed, some punishment for her lack of faith. Eventually he sighed and ran his fingers up the keys in a casual scale. "You need have no fear, Madame. Buquet will never touch your daughter, I promise you that. Can you accept the word of a murderer?"

"I can accept the word of my rescuer," she told him. "What must I do in return?"

She could just see a slight smile turn up the visible corner of his mouth. "I will consider that, though I did warn you never to fall into debt. Go now; leave me be."

Antoinette's feet took her almost automatically towards the door but before she reached it she stopped, fingers resting on the handle. "Please be careful," she said quietly. "Buquet has seen you, and he is making wild claims about the Opera Ghost. I... would not like to see you come to harm."

"I am always careful." Random notes, somehow coming together in a mournful little tune, were teased from the keyboard. "But this man Buquet is an irritant. Do not come down here again, Madame; I have had to increase certain aspects of my security because of him and his nasty habit of poking his nose in where it is not wanted. I should not like you to come to harm either."

"Thank you for the warning. Shall I..." She hesitated again. "...would it be of use to you if I continued to leave a few provisions inside the Rue Scribe gate? I am sure it must be awkward for you to obtain things yourself and the crew are starting to notice their missing luncheon."

She thought she heard a chuckle from him but as both hands were now flitting over the keys and the music was increasing in volume she might have been mistaken. He seemed to be playing by instinct, either from a phenomenal memory or composing as he went for there was no manuscript open on the stand. He inclined his head. "That would be... acceptable."

No more was said, and she reluctantly turned to go, but the music shifted a key and she suddenly recognised the tune as the one he had played on the violin that night at the fair. It had obviously been changed since then, elaborated and extended for the piano, and had lost some of the heart-wrenching immediacy of that long ago performance but it still had the power to move her and she felt tears spring unbidden to her eyes. Erik's eyes were closed, his concentration solely upon the emotions flowing from him into the instrument at his command and doubtless oblivious to the effect it was having on her. Almost without thinking she blurted out, "Will I see you again?"

His hands stilled and the music abruptly stopped, the resulting silence louder than the piano had ever been.

"None of us can see the future, Madame."

* * *

**Author's Note:**

Hello, everyone!

As I said at the start this is a much shorter story, and there's just one chapter left.

I am trying to finish a Christmas tale, but in case I don't get time I would like to wish you all a very Merry Christmas and thank you for reading my literary efforts this year.

See you on the 27th! :)


	5. Chapter 5

**THE HAND OF FATE**

**PART FIVE**

"I'm not sure I understand you, Monsieur. You want me to change the choreography? All of it?"

Madame Giry stared at the manager of the Opera Populaire in consternation. Monsieur Duchamps, who had only been in charge of the theatre and its company for a few months, looked hassled as he shuffled the pile of papers on his desk; she thought she saw a letter, bordered in black and set out in faintly familiar handwriting before he hurriedly moved it underneath the rest and folded his hands on top. "Yes," he said, and cleared his throat when the voice which emerged sounded slightly strangled. "I have looked at the reviews and they are not favourable, Madame, not favourable at all. Some of the correspondents, especially those of Le Monde and Le Figaro, have been most scathing, with the ballet coming in for some of the harshest criticism. I have also had communication from certain patrons - "

"From Monsieur de Chagny, I suppose, demanding that Justine Sorelli is given a more prominent role?" Antoinette enquired, raising an eyebrow. "I have explained before that she is not yet ready for more responsibility and while Yvette St Martin is still Prima - "

The manager interrupted her in turn. "I would not say 'demanded', more... _requested_, and I am aware that Mademoiselle St Martin is due to retire at the end of the season. It would surely do no harm to allow Mademoiselle Sorelli a more prominent role."

"Which did you have in mind, Monsieur? I fear that of Juliet is already taken by Louise Pascal."

"I do not appreciate your feeble attempts at humour, Madame," Duchamps snapped, his little black eyes flashing. "If we do not take action to rescue the production it will sink without trace, and may I remind you that the funding for the Populaire is not inexhaustible? Your fame as a dancer precedes you but I can easily find someone else to do your job at a much lower rate; there are plenty of women in your position clamouring for their chance to join such a prestigious company."

His words almost felt like a physical slap in the face. Antoinette stiffened her spine. "I am grateful to you for offering me employment, Monsieur," she said coldly, "but I am sure you would not want me to be lax in my duties. I only wish to make the corps de ballet as good as it can possibly be, and I followed my instructions from the musical director to the letter. If anyone is in error here regarding the performance, surely it is he."

With a groan the manager sank his head into his hands. "Yes, yes, I know. Please accept my apologies, Madame, the comment was uncalled for. I will be speaking to Monsieur Moreau later this morning; we will all have to do some considerable tweaking to the production before we open or the newspapers will rip us to shreds."

Antoinette frowned. She was not in the habit of reading first night notices in the general press; most of the theatrical correspondents were ill-informed and more interested in the ballerinas' legs than the actual opera. "Who has been telling you this, Monsieur? I know that all was not perfect at the dress rehearsal but everything seemed to run smoothly at the preview last night. The audience, such as they were, appeared to enjoy themselves."

"The audience sadly do not ultimately pay the bills. If the patrons are displeased we lose far more money than we would be short for a few empty seats." Duchamps looked torn, as if he was considering whether to let her into his confidence and so she waited patiently; it was quite obvious that he had received more bad news than just a few unfavourable reviews. Perhaps Philip de Chagny or one of his friends was threatening to withdraw their patronage; a disaster for a company still struggling to find its feet in a ruinously expensive new theatre.

Finally Duchamps reached beneath the stack of papers and withdrew that black-edged note, handing it to her without a word. Her frown deepening, Antoinette read the densely-written lines, the words obviously chosen carefully to create maximum impact. She could agree with the criticism of _Romeo and Juliet_'s first performance: the dancing was a shambles; Louise Pascal out of her depth and lacking proper vocal training; the young tenor playing Romeo posturing and preening as though the story were focussed completely on him; that fact that two of the horns were out of tune and throwing the rest of the orchestra off. There were additional comments regarding each of the principals in turn, but she skimmed over them in favour of those made about her ballerinas: this unknown correspondent was not lavish in his praise but he had a few kind words to say about the choreography, ending with a point which both vindicated her and gladdened her heart: _The ballet mistress has done the best she can in the face of poor direction and inadequate arrangement; it is indeed quite incredible that under such pressure she was able to devise anything even remotely coherent. May I suggest that in future Monsieur Moreau leaves direction of the dancers to those who know what they are doing?_

"It's unsigned, but I can only assume it came from a patron who does not wish to be named," said Duchamps when she handed the letter back. "I found it on my blotter this morning, apparently delivered by hand."

"Whoever it is, they are certainly well-informed about opera and theatre in general," Antoinette remarked. That did not sound like any of the patrons she had ever encountered, who were usually only there to see and be seen and to sneak backstage for an assignation with one of the ballerinas; the Vicomte de Chagny and his ilk were well known for hanging around the dancers' lounge after performances. The handwriting was niggling her; she had seen it somewhere, she was sure, but the connection was right at the back of her mind and hovering maddeningly out of reach.

"Indeed. And I would be a madman to ignore their suggestions." The manager put away the note and locked the drawer, rising to his feet. "I wish to address the cast and crew; will you ask Monsieur Moreau to gather them all together in the auditorium? We have a lot of work to do."

* * *

It was a long few days full of hard and frustrating work, but by the end of the week Antoinette was relieved to find that her ballet corps were in better shape than they had been after the first performance, all pulling together and following Yvette St Martin's lead.

Against her better judgement she had been forced to increase Sorelli's role, realising as she watched them run through the new choreography that Mademoiselle St Martin was beginning to lose the energy and poise that had raised her to the position of the Prima Ballerina in the first place; Yvette was nearing thirty and obviously tired, her joints suffering from so many years of punishment. Her pirouettes were still graceful, her cabriole impressive, but her arabesques were wobbling and Antoinette, feeling the strain upon her own far-from-old bones, was convinced that her heart was no longer in it. Sorelli, on the other hand, though she may still have been a little rough around the edges, was eager and determined to succeed, watching the older woman like a young lion circling around the dying head of the pride, hungry for the fame and adulation that was becoming more and more certain of being within her grasp. Antoinette could have chided her, had done so on numerous occasions, emphasising the passion for music, for dance, that should be first and foremost in her mind, but she knew Sorelli would ignore her, sights fixed firmly on what she saw as the ultimate prize. When told that she was to share the major role with Yvette, the girl almost appeared to lick her lips in anticipation.

During a break between the final rehearsal and that evening's show, Antoinette collected Meg from the costume department, feeling terribly guilty for neglecting her daughter so much; before Jules's death they had spent almost every waking hour together but now circumstances had dictated that Meg should find herself being brought up more by Mademoiselle Giroux than her own mother. Having to listen to Meg's innocent chatter about the fun she'd had helping Ma'm'selle Sylvie count her buttons sent what felt like a dagger through her heart.

"Why have you got two loaves of bread, Maman?" Meg asked, climbing up onto the desk as Antoinette shut the office door behind them. She had forgotten her hurried trip to the market earlier in all the fuss and her basket still stood where she had left it, the bread sticking out of one side.

"I... I was doing a little shopping for a friend, petite," she said, pulling the cloth across the basket straight in what she hoped was an unobtrusive manner; Meg was nothing if not observant, to the point where her sharp eyes could sometimes make things rather awkward. "She's not been well and can't get out to buy food at the moment."

"Can she not buy socks, either?" It was too late and Meg had noticed the black gentlemen's stockings that Antoinette had purchased on a whim, as a gift to replace Erik's worn out pair. Hurriedly she covered the basket properly and stowed it away beneath the desk. "She must be very sick; will you give her a kiss from me and tell her I hope that she gets better soon?"

Antoinette could not help but smile. She ruffled her daughter's golden curls. "I will, my darling. Thank you."

"Is this a letter for you, Maman?" Meg's attention had been caught by something else on the desk; to her surprise Antoinette saw on the blotter an ivory envelope edged in black, horribly like the mourning stationery she had used after Jules' death. As she picked it up she recognised the handwriting from the note Monsieur Duchamps had shown her, the legend _For the attention of_ _Madame Antoinette Giry_ flowing across the front in strong black ink. Meg's eyes were wide as she watched her examine it. "Is it from a man? Ma'm'selle Sylvie gets letters from a man, she calls him her special friend and she's waiting for him to ask to her to marry him!"

"I'm not waiting for anyone to ask me to marry them, cherie," Antoinette said firmly, trying to blink back the tear that sprang to her eye. "No one will ever replace your father."

"Are you going to read it?"

Antoinette regarded the note for a long moment before tucking it away in her bodice. "Later."

* * *

"Such an improvement! The audience loved it too; we almost had a standing ovation!" Eugene Reyer mopped his forehead with a huge spotted handkerchief and smiled in relief as the cast trooped off the stage after the final curtain call. "I never in my life imagined that Louise Pascal could sing like that; she almost seemed bewitched!"

"Yes, well, being told that if you do not pull out all the stops you could lose your job can do that to a person," Antoinette replied with a grimace. "She should never have been cast in a leading role in the first place; I cannot imagine what Monsieur Duchamps was thinking. He should be trying to draw in first-class performers, perhaps from Venice or Milan, or London even; we need someone who can guarantee a good box office return, someone to pull in the crowds. That is the only way we will make any money."

Reyer gave her a sidelong look. "Practical advice, my dear Madame; perhaps you should go into management yourself."

"They would never have me." She smiled slightly. "Everyone would find me far too much of a slave-driver; I do not tolerate mediocrity, Monsieur, every performer should strive to be the absolute best they can. Do you not agree?"

"Will you be so hard on your daughter when she joins the corps?" Reyer enquired, watching indulgently as Meg chattered to the ballerinas, admiring their costumes and pirouetting around with a grace that belied her tender years. She was already standing like a dancer, doubtless influenced by Antoinette's unconscious ballet stance and the examples she was given by the girls with whom she loved to sit, happy to be petted and cooed over and drinking in everything she saw.

Antoinette raised an eyebrow. "If Meg is to be a dancer she will have to learn that she will get on her career only by sheer hard work. Talent is necessary, but one cannot succeed on talent alone. I will treat her, if the time comes when she wishes to begin her training, no different to anyone else under my tuition."

She thought she heard Reyer huff with disapproval, but he covered it well, saying, "Well, it might be wise to show her a little leniency. She is such a lively little thing; it would be a shame to drum that out of her." Before Antoinette could answer he turned his attention away from the ballerinas and asked, "Would you like me to walk the two of you home again tonight?"

"Thank you, Monsieur, that is very kind of you," Antoinette said, forgetting his comment in her relief that he had offered. She had not liked to ask again, or admit that she was still nervous of walking home alone after dark. "I must speak with my girls, and fetch a couple of things from my office, but - "

Reyer smiled. "Take all the time you need, Madame. In the meantime I will look after young Mademoiselle Meg for you; she was very interested in the orchestra pit when I took her down there the other day."

Had it been any other man Antoinette would have been very wary and probably pulled her daughter away immediately but there was nothing odd or threatening about Eugene Reyer; though she had only known him a few months it was obvious that though he could be something of a tartar with the cast he was kindness itself to those he considered friends and she could think of no one with whom she would trust Meg's safety more. She returned the smile gratefully. "Again you have my gratitude, Monsieur. I will be as quick as I can; I think that we are all tired after such a stressful week."

* * *

Eventually, her ballerinas praised and scolded in equal measure and allowed to run off the meet the beaux that were doubtless waiting for them at the stage door, Antoinette let herself into her office to fetch her bag and the basket that she would leave tucked behind the little gate on the Rue Scribe before going to meet Reyer and Meg. Her daughter might have been bouncing around earlier, caught up in the energy of a performance, but she knew that Meg would probably be flagging by now and need carrying home; in an ideal world a girl of six would never be allowed to stay up so late but their circumstances meant she had little choice in the matter. Knowing now that Joseph Buquet was able to roam freely throughout the theatre and listen at any door he chose she had no desire to let Meg out of her sight or that of someone she trusted; she could ask Madame Reinard to watch Meg but Buquet might easily discover her address and Antoinette's blood ran cold at the thought of that man laying a hand on her daughter. Erik might have promised his protection within the Opera but even he could not be everywhere.

The office was in darkness and she fumbled blindly under the desk for the basket, reluctant to bother lighting a lamp for the minute or two she intended to stay. It was not until she straightened and nearly bumped into something soft and heard breathing that was not her own that she realised she was not alone and it took all of her considerable self-control not to scream. A hand descended over her mouth, the skin cold enough to make her jump, and she did cry out in consternation, almost throwing the basket to the floor in order to free herself before there was the scrape of a match and a face loomed out of the shadows, only one side of which seemed to be human, the other fixed and immobile as though its owner had suffered a stroke.

"Shhh!" a familiar voice hissed. "It's me, Madame: Erik! Do you want to alert everyone to my existence?"

Thoroughly annoyed, Antoinette laid down her burden on the desk and took hold of his wrist, roughly removing his hold on her mouth. "I was not about to scream," she told him in a sharp whisper.

"I could not take that chance," he replied, unapologetic of his assault upon her person. He casually lifted the cover on her little lamp, lighting the wick and filling the room with a flickering orange light. "Women usually scream at the sight of me."

"Well, what do you expect when you come upon them unawares?" She smoothed down her skirts, patting her plaits to make sure no strands had come loose, in an attempt to calm her flustered nerves. "You should know better than to startle me like that after what happened when first we met."

To his credit, he did look vaguely contrite, though it was hard to be sure as the damaged side of his face was once more covered with a white mask; as the light hit the surface it gleamed and she realised it must be made of glazed pottery or porcelain, which explained how it had come to be broken when Buquet knocked it off in the alley. Antoinette had to admit that it was a beautiful piece of work, sculpted to mirror the lines of his face and add the symmetry and balance to his features that was sadly lacking when it was removed. His hat was tilted rather rakishly to the right in what she guessed was an attempt to draw attention from the mask, his tall frame cloaked in black, and he looked quite magnificent and imposing in her tiny office, the shadows hiding any imperfections. "My apologies," he said. "I was not thinking; I interact so rarely with the outside world."

"I am surprised to see you," Antoinette remarked. "It has been almost two months since our last contact."

Erik raised his eyebrow. "I prefer to be unpredictable. One is safer that way."

"I am especially surprised to see you here in my office," she continued as though he had not spoken. "I know you claim to be a magician, but do you now possess the power to walk through locked doors?"

He gave her a sly smile. "A good magician never reveals his secrets, Madame."

"Do not play games with me, Monsieur," Antoinette said, resisting an urge to roll her eyes and reaching for her coat instead, pointedly slipping it on and folding her arms. "It is late, I am tired and I want nothing more than to go home. Is there something I can help you with?"

At her tone he sobered. "I take it that you did not read my note?"

"Your note..?" She blinked, bemused, for a moment before recalling the letter Meg had found, the one that was still tucked unopened, into her bodice. Drawing it out she finally remembered where she had seen the writing before: on the music and libretti she found on his piano. He watched carefully as she broke open the envelope and withdrew the single sheet inside; as she read the two lines she heard his voice speaking them in her ear, but when she glanced up his lips had not moved. More tricks, she decided, and returned her attention to the note and the words he had written: _Brava, Madame, you are clearly a woman of great resource and daring. Your talents will take you far_. Unlike that sent to Monsieur Duchamps, this one was signed, but with two initials instead of a name. "O.G?" she queried. "What does that stand for?"

"What do you think? Your silly ballet rats gave me the name, after all."

"'Opera Ghost'?" Antoinette asked sceptically, arching her own brow.

In reply he gave a graceful little bow. "I considered your suggestion that I play some kind of active part in the running of the Populaire; it is quite obvious that without a guiding hand the place will fail before too long. There are many with great knowledge and talent within these walls but they are worthless if those at the very top have no idea what they are doing."

"If the note you left for Monsieur Duchamps was your idea of asking for a job I fear you are going about it the wrong way."

He laughed harshly. "Would you offer a position to a man from nowhere, with no history or identity? I desire to remain out of the world, Madame, and I will not change my mind while those within it are unable to tolerate the unfortunate souls to whom nature has not been so kind. My years as an exhibit, to be gawked and spat at, are behind me and I will not go back. Should I choose I could direct this theatre standing on my head, but I prefer to do so from the shadows."

"And how does this involve me?" Antoinette enquired. "I assume from your presence here that it in some way does."

She watched as he paced across the little room, cloak swirling behind him. "I wish to make you a proposition," he said, turning back to face her and meeting her gaze from beneath the brim of his hat. His mismatched eyes glittered in the lamplight.

"That, sir, is a most improper suggestion!" she told him sharply, scandalised. "Did your mother not teach you that one does not proposition ladies?"

Something akin to a growl rumbled in his chest and his lips twisted in a sneer. "She taught me very little and I am glad of it," he snapped. "Do not speak of that which you do not understand."

"I am sorry." His long white fingers had clenched into powerful fists and Antoinette found herself taking an involuntary step backwards as his visible cheek flushed in anger. Her words had obviously touched a very raw nerve. "What is it you wish me to do?"

Gradually he calmed and the urbane gentleman returned, as though the rage had been simply and deftly packed away. "I have decided to favour Monsieur Duchamps with my knowledge and experience of music generally and opera in particular; my travels over the years have ranged far and wide and I have learned much along the way. It is quite obvious that the Populaire is currently in need of considerable assistance if last night's preview performance was anything to go by."

Antoinette frowned. "Are you suggesting a partnership? With Monsieur Duchamps?"

"Hardly." He grimaced. "No, Madame, I am suggesting that you and I become partners. If you agree to deliver my notes and collect my salary I will see that you are amply rewarded."

"Deliver your..? I don't think I understand, Monsieur." With a flick of his wrist there was suddenly another black-bordered envelope in his hand and he held it out to her. Cautiously she opened it, and her frown deepened as she read what it contained. "Exclusive access to Box Five... Ten thousand francs a month...? You surely cannot be serious! Box Five has possibly the best view in the entire house!"

"Why should I settle for less?" he asked. "I can make this theatre and its company great; my demands are entirely suitable recompense for the services I am able to provide. Would you say that Monsieur Duchamps is an impressionable gentleman?"

She remembered the manager's reaction to the reviews he had read that morning and nodded. "Yes, very much so."

"All the better, then; he is more likely to agree. And if he does not, I can ruin this place just as easily, though it would pain me to do so. I would be grateful to you if you would impress upon him the wisdom of acquiescing to my plans."

"This is madness," Antoinette murmured, shaking her head. "It will never work!"

"You would be surprised what a desperate man will agree to. I have heard rumours that Monsieur Duchamps may be relieved of his position should the takings not increase; revenue from ticket sales has been down considerably, and if attendance is down then morale will drop and performances will suffer. And patrons do not give money to an institution on its death bed, Madame," Erik pointed out. "You have a simple choice: help me and I will make sure that you and your daughter never go hungry, or refuse me and wait for nature to take its course. I give the Populaire under the current management six months at most."

"That is not a simple choice, Monsieur, it is an impossible choice! Do you mean to tell me that you intend to extort money from the manager through blackmail?" she demanded. "I will not be a party to a crime!"

"Do I use the word blackmail, Madame?" he enquired innocently. "I am merely offering my services in return for perfectly reasonable remuneration. As long as I am treated fairly, nothing will happen to any member of the company; I am sure Monsieur Duchamps will see the sense of such an arrangement."

"Then why do you not come out and do so honestly, instead of hiding behind anonymous notes? I am sure that Monsieur Duchamps will not dismiss you out of hand; he is a reasonable man - "

The visible side of his face closed up as though it had been swiftly and effectively shuttered; his eyes were as cold as ice, his own features as blank as those of his mask. "In my experience, no man is reasonable when I am in his presence. But, if you fear for your conscience, I will take up no more of your time. I hope that when this theatre fails you will be able to find employment elsewhere; most theatrical establishments do not take on widows with children."

"You _are_ using blackmail, Monsieur," Antoinette said as he turned his back once more. "It is emotional, and you are using it upon me. You know that I am in somewhat straightened circumstances; how can I refuse an offer to keep Meg fed and clothed? Were I to lose my position here we would be on the streets; I have no family to whom I can turn and the money my husband left us is all gone."

She thought she saw his shoulders relax slightly. "I do not ask you to become involved, Madame," he replied quietly. "Merely deliver my letters and collect the money from Box Five, and I shall see that you are handsomely rewarded. If you would also agree to continue our current arrangement with regard to procuring the necessities of life for me I would be extremely grateful; include an itemised list of your expenses with each delivery and the account will be promptly settled."

"It is a somewhat... unconventional partnership that you propose. What will you be doing while I am performing these services?"

"I, Madame? I will be working. I have an Opera House to rescue, after all." He glanced at her and there was a definite gleam in his eye. "When I am done the Populaire will be the talk of Paris, and quite possibly of Europe. What do you say, Antoinette? Do we have a deal?"

The words were arrogant, ludicrously so coming from a man who had nothing and lived in the cellars of the theatre, but somehow she believed him. "Yes," she said, and held out her hand. "We have a deal."

Hesitantly he shook her hand, and though he withdrew his own as quickly as he could there was a triumphant smile on his face. "I promise you that you will not regret it."

Ten years later, when she saw the body of Joseph Buquet hanging above the stage and the great chandelier hurtling towards a terrified Christine Daae, Madame Giry remembered those words and wondered in the heat of that terrible moment whether the deal she had done had turned out to be with the Devil.

**FIN**


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